dialogue in drafts
by breadandchoc
Summary: Evey writes, V is sick, conversations occur. Another ordinary phenomenon.
1. Thursday: 3:50 am, 6 am

A_ccording to a timeline I found, movieverse!Evey spent only 1 month with V before the whole_ betrayal-Gordon'shouse-torture _arc. And then 2 months after the torture before she leaves. Which is terribly short for someone to get to know another, let alone fall in love, but yeah. So I guess this takes place somewhere near the end of the very short 1 month stay with V before the_ B/G/Torture_ period. 1 month is pretty short, so realistically, Evey's probably unlikely to be all that close to her captor._

_Fairly unedited, warnings of OOC liek whoa, ramblings. Should continue on a lighter note after this one, but really, I'm not quite sure where this thing is heading. Movieverse.__ Thanks for all feedback. :)_

* * *

_Thursday; 3:50 am. _

Dear John,

God, what an ungodly hour to be awake. My internal clock has long given up on me ever since entering the dark underworld of London's bowels, but my head – and eyes and back and oh, everything- is throbbing enough to remind me of the atrocious hour. And it doesn't help that I haven't written for so long.

V's shivering has finally died down: he's sleeping now, turned to the side under a mountain of blankets. He's quite a picture- ha, imagine if I'd a camera—our terrorist, bombs and blood, exhausted and tucked into bed. Watching him makes my own fatigue worse-- his even breathing, the dim light casting shadows on the rise and fall of the sheets, antibiotics like sickly sweet and--- arigh, am so tired.

Sleep first. Explain later.

_**- Evey**_

* * *

_Grandfather chiming 6 from the hall._

Dear John,

It's amazing what one hour of sleep can do to you. Equally amazing how the next hour can undo all that restful bliss.

When I woke, my first action was to check V's temperature- the best way I can, anyway. Placed the back of my hand lightly against his neck and tried to gauge how high his temperature is. It says a lot of his condition that he never even stirred. This man, who lives in a constant cacophony of music, background drama and -- _noise_ and would still spin around like a cat startled whenever I passed the room's doorway. Who had never let himself slip after that single first day – did I tell you that he actually apologized?-; gloves and long dark shirts becoming his second skin with such diligence that, till now, I've become too self-conscious to even venture that I _really don't mind_. I know, its none of my business. But I've always wondered if I made him uncomfortable, and whether he thought it was the other way round.

I felt the side of his uncovered neck, back of hand pressing under the jaw, not believing the temperature, and he never woke up. It seems his scars stretch all the way to his neck, and I suspect it continues throughout his entire body, an interlinked roadmap of burnt nerves. That was the least of my concern, however. His temperature was beyond feverish. It _burned, _John, like the way you did. I know heat probably collects more in the concave of the throat, and touch is hardly the best way to judge fever- we're always too subjective, aren't we- but it frightened me: it was like touching liquid heat, his pale scars like lava currents. I couldn't believe he could sleep through it. I stripped off the layers of blankets, hysteria at the back of my throat.

'V, wake up, wake up. Wake up!' I gripped his shoulder and shook him. He didn't respond and for one terrible heart-stopping second I thought he had died while I had napped beside him. And- don't judge me, please- I remember a brief but unmistakable flash of _how inconvenient_ passing through my mind. Resigned dismay escaping uncensored. Yes, I know; I'm ashamed to admit it- but when _the-rest-of-your-life_ hangs precariously on the goodwill and breath of a semi-sane terrorist, is it really so mean-spirited to mourn the passing of your own survival before his?

To my immeasurable relief, he groaned a sound and turned his head in a way that told me he had opened his eyes. I nearly hugged him out of sheer sweet gratitude for not dying. Good thing I didn't; he's always radiated an impression of reluctance to intimacy disguised as politeness, and ambushing him during his moment of weakness would probably encourage him to kick me out—politely, as he infuriatingly always is. I took one of his hands instead.

'You're burning up, V,' I rambled, trying to move him to an upright position, a hopeless exercise without his co-operation. 'We need to get you to the bathroom, you need a cold sho—no, cold bath, I'll fill it up wi—you can leave your clothes on but—_please, V, move_-- I'm sorry, I know you want to sleep, but you're _burning, _we have to bring the temperature down or-_-_ V, _please, get up._' I was a frenzy of useless activity- tugging encouragingly on his arm, using his shoulder as a futile support to pull him upright. Dread tasting the same after all these years, like old mothballs clogging.

The shoulder under my palm tensed slightly before diluting limp and boneless again. While his breath had been shallow and even before, it was deep and ragged now, unnaturally loud in the high ceilings of his room. I thought he was coughing till I realized the hacking jerks was his painful adaptation of a laugh. 'Think I'll survive a second fire?' he managed, voice sounding rough and strange. I thought I detected a sardonic trace of a laugh within and wanted to shake him, torn between anger and terror.

'_Please_ try to get up, V,' I tried again, using as much strength as I could without straining his body unevenly. 'You're delirious. I need you to focus.'

He tensed obediently, struggling to drag unwilling muscles up. It must have been a frustrating experience, for a man so used to lithe grace in everyday movements to lose control of his body to an unseen enemy. He managed to pull himself up on one elbow, breathing in gasps, before his body gave up and collapsed on itself. 'I can't,' he said simply while I fussed over him, murmuring meaningless comforts and ignoring the hot sting in my eyes. If he went unconscious like before, right now, it might kill him. Even the sheets radiated heat from around him.

Warmth enveloped my hand, squeezing weakly – a first for him in initiating touch. 'Oh well,' he sighed, a long sing-breath of each syllable. 'To die would be a great adventure.'

My head snapped up. I must admit I lost it a bit there, in my tight anxiety. Unfair of me, when it had been the sickness speaking. But Dad had told me that at the funeral too, forgetting that Barrie had been knocked off the shelf long before my time and the words would be more careless cruelty than comfort. I never forgave him for that for the longest time.

'What?' I said sharply, a curse-word being cut. 'An _adventure_? All your talk and future and goals, and you're giving them up like_ that_? Ideas don't die. Ideas don't get sick. If you die, so does England. If you die, no one will remember the Fifth and life like this not only goes on, you bloody well make _sure_ it does. So go ahead, die, and we'll remember you alright- as another faceless threat that our brave Chancellor saved us from!'

Was I too harsh? If I had V's morality, the ends justify the means. Destination, not journey. But fear is no excuse, and I am not V.

V looked at me. The silence was undermined somewhat by the gradual shaking of his body, uncontrollable I know, because of the stilted start and stop of the tremors as he tried to force it down.

'Is a record being kept?' he said at last, and the lilt of his enunciation was clearer than before. He sounded tired, but awake- at last.

'Yes,' I said. I took a breath. 'Your fever is worse. Can I give you more of the pills- or the bottles...?'

He started to shake his head, but stopped when the effort seemed too much. The extent of his weakness was shocking; breathing seemed to take up most of his energy, his body tremors the rest. Each word was a superhuman exertion—why didn't the medicine _work?_ I despaired.

'Evey,' he mumbled, and stopped. I squeezed his hand gently, terrified that he had drifted off. I needed all the information I could get; he hadn't said anything on his illness ever since I found him sprawled on the couch, only partially conscious.

He seemed to have difficulty gathering his words, another first for a man whose normal mode of communication was prose. 'I need—water. Please.'

I moved like I was struck. 'Yes, yes, of course!' I garbled. 'Hang on, I'll be—' I was stumbling out into the hall light before I finished, a beeline to the kitchen. A kettle of water, a cup. Panic bred inspiration and I found a small bucket under the kitchen sink and filled it up with cold tap water, hooking it on my arm and stuffing a face towel in my pocket as I passed the toilet. When I returned, half the blankets were piled back on. The hollow of his throat heated my fingers when I touched him lightly; he was too weak to move away.

'You have a high fever, V,' I said quietly, the nurturing sadist as I stripped off the blankets. The useless visitor—oh shush, John. 'Your body needs to cool down,' I explained, a murmur of reassurance more than anything. He shifted, seeming to close in on himself for warmth, but made no protest. I wondered if he was watching me, whether his eyes were bright or dull with fever. England's revolutionary shivering and helpless without so much as a thermometer, and burning up with a sickness he won't explain and medicine he won't take.

'Where do you keep the straws, V?' I resisted the urge to just take off the damn mask. 'I couldn't find any in the drawers.' He didn't answer. A quick assessment of his breathing told me he had lapsed back into uneasy sleep again; a miracle for all his minute shuddering. It was almost as if he was used to it.

Exasperatingly, we are all pretty much restricted to learning what people are like with our own confound presence, which is why chance glimpses of a loved one walking down the street can sometime seem so precious. It sounds like paranoia, but I've got a gut feeling that V has been—not putting on an act, but almost as if treading on cracking glass ever since I came into the Shadow Gallery and his life. Intangible layers more absolute and smothering than the full deck of his clothes, the distance of a lifetime and preciously nurtured ideals in opposition. Seeing him like that, in that vulnerable oblivion of sleep shared by both toddlers and terrorists, I felt touched. Irrational tenderness, I know- probably the disguised headiness of wielding the power of life and death, our roles reversed- but it is rare that I stop thinking of him as an idea.

There, I said it. Do you understand? I knew you, our rough and tumble play-fights, the arrogant certainty of our immortality that characterizes the young, the indifference to our bare-bone intimacy of each other. I knew you as a person, whole and grounded as a foundation of my world; I do not know V. Honestly, who quotes like that and speaks as if in a scripted play; who moves like that, fights like a dance to celebrate death, _who is so perfectly created_? He and the Count from his treasured film are really not that different: they're both the result of a series of deliberate choices. Sometimes I think—but I digress. Bear with me, John; I'm beat and barely legible as it is. Let's not beat around the bush: I had been glad he was sick. Secretly, selfishly gratified beneath the anxiety. Maybe it's the glamour-illusion that he can't die (its just not _in-character_, somehow, as if he playwrights his own dramas hahh) which is maybe why his unexpected carelessness to his own death made me snap so: V can't die. Impossible as faith. I've learnt more about my saviour-slash-kidnapper during the past two days then over the entire past month. Whether he is more or less himself, I don't know, but at least he is starting to be _someone _real.

I didn't want to wake him, but I needed to cool him down. Fully submerging him in a bathtub of cold water seemed out of the question, so I soaked the flannel in the bucket and spread it over his body, moving the cloth and re-soaking when necessary. I had to unbutton his shirt for it of course- the scars go in uneven patchwork of unmarred and mottled skin, by the way- but it was only halfway through my single-minded treatment that I realized that if he was rational enough, he would probably have some definite objections. To hell with that, I thought, and went to refill the bucket: the water was losing its chill. Death or privacy- not a difficult choice.

He was partially awake during some points of it, a quick indraw of breath every time I applied the drenched cloth. The sheets below him darkened with his outline. At one point, he was even coherent enough to mumble '-- freezin', the closest I've heard him come to a complaint, before he dropped off again while I murmured apologies and tried to estimate the heat of his skin. By time the second bucket's waterline had receded to half, I was spent. By making him turn to the side, I managed to wet his back as well by slipping the cloth under the shirt and while his temperature was by no means low, he no longer burned to touch.

The fever would have probably killed a less—_other_, _fully grown_ men. I'm sorry, I'm being terribly insensitive again; I'm tired. I'm making excuses, forgive. It is very quiet now, watching him sleep. Everything is swallowed by shadows, only this sheltered lamp and scratch of my pen, a prelude of stillness. I have to check his temperature soon. My fear now is not that he'll die (dumb faith) but that the heat with affect him somehow, brain-damage via illness. It is not an unrealistic possibility, you and I both know. But I can't exactly remove the mask and soothe his forehead with a cool damp cloth- somehow, that goes beyond privacy and caves into something too darkly intimate for me to barge into, even at its risks. But my greater fear is what this sickness is.

Is this just a fever? Dear god, let it be. Its probably just old hauntings. I am no doctor, and amateur diagnosis is not even my forte. I will make him confess the next time he is conscious enough. Perhaps his fever has broken –don't scoff- and that's the end of it, only this rare glimpse of human banality beneath the impregnable magnetism of his persona as my only reminder. Perhaps in a day or two he will be baking scones and amusing me with choice quotes on the irony of life, infusing the Gallery with the vivacity of his presence.

_**- Evey**_


	2. Friday: 8:40 pm

_Pretty unedited again. But I'm having too much fun with longwinded!Evey and general OOC-ness to care. :) This should be longer, but I just want to put it up first._

_Thanks foryour feedback. :)_

_

* * *

Friday, 8: 40 pm._

Dear John,

You know how they say people aren't themselves when they're sick? You-- I remember blearily, as if through ripples-- became withdrawn, shutting out the world with curled fists. The boy in the next ward grew violent—well, they called it violent, anyway; I always thought his desperate clawing was no different from the rest of us, only he was honest enough to express it.

V isn't himself either. In fact, he is a completely_ different _person. Not just more touchy or a twist of whimsy. _Different._

Oh, I know how that sounds. It isn't drugs, because he _still_ refuses to take the anything, that exasperating man. It may be delirium. It may be—who knows? Probably I'm being melodramatic again. The dominant tone of his personality is still strong enough for it not to be schizophrenic, of course—he doesn't appear to be _that_ mad yet…

Incredibly, the worse does seem to be over. He has the luck of the devil, honestly. His temperature has gone down enough that it doesn't seem foolhardy to let him have a few thin blankets; watching him shiver makes me rub my arms without thinking, the phantom prickling of goosebumps till I touch his skin and find him burning up again. But today it seems to have stabilized at last, though hardly at a comforting level.

He became coherent in the late afternoon of yesterday. I'd just finished a quick shower, hair still dark around my nape from damp. He was partially sitting up when I came in, an incredible feat by itself.

'Evey,' he greeted me. 'I do apologize for all this trouble.'

Full sentences! The relief was dizzying: I knelt beside the bed, grinning like an idiot. 'Welcome back,' I said. I checked his temperature automatically, back of my hand against his neck. 'Are you feeling better?'

He made a non-committal sound. I noticed one of his shoulders was trembling, almost unnoticeable; his whole posture was slumped against the bed backing, exhaustion in body language. I wondered how much effort it took for him to speak, and something inexplicable caught in my throat.

I offered him a mug of water, straw attached. 'Can I give you the pills with this now?' My voice took on a honeyed tone, persuasion to an unruly child. I showed him the packet of blue capsules, an incentive of convenience. Carrot to donkey, excuse the imagery. 'I'll turn around when you take them...'

V exhaled a shaky laugh. 'Water suffices. Thank you.' I bit back my protests and helped him hold the mug while he drank. I refilled it and he finished the second mug almost without pausing for breath, a traveler's thirst in the desert.

There was a small sigh of satisfaction. 'Thanks,' he said again, almost drawling on the consonants. He seemed half-asleep already, head dipping.

'Why won't you take the medicine?' I thrust the recording sheet at him-- a crumpled sheet with hasty scribbles, really; I'd been preoccupied-- in an attempt to keep him awake. I'd been waiting for him to become conscious for a day, and wasn't about to lose him so fast. 'Look, your fever nearly went away after you took it, and the spasms died off. The instructions say you can take it once every six hours, so if you just took it--'

'I'm not taking it, Evey,' he gently interrupted my ranting. Sleep blurred the edges of his precise enunciation, stole the usual rich depth from his voice. He sounded like a tired man waving his nagging wife away; ordinary. 'Please understand.'

My frustration tightened in a heavy weight on my chest. His temperature had gone up almost exponentially after the medicine's effects wore off, and was teetering precariously between my glaring unprofessional scribble of 'Very warm' and 'Burning!'. No doubt it was some twisted form of masochism or maybe just dumb pride. No, more likely some perverse private experiment on himself too insane to be explainable. It infuriated me. If the fever doesn't finish him off, I just might.

I let it go and tackled another problem. 'How about thermometers? Are you absolutely sure there's none here at all? Even in the storerooms?'

'Not any rooms you'll be going into,' he said, suddenly lucid. It made his words clipped in the wrong way, like an accent being born.

I took a breath. 'I_ need_ those thermometers, V. It's the very least you can let me do. Just tell me where it is and I'll go straight to it, I swear. Good grief, just help me--'

I broke off. He was making a strange sound, a cross between a groan and cry, one hand rising halfway to his mask before falling back again. His right shoulder started trembling- no, shaking visibly now, muscle spasms at odds with the stillness of his body, like a separate animal wrenching away. I stopped speaking, stopped breathing, terror lunging straight for bared heart. Like the boy in the other ward-- oh god, _John_, that boy almost...

I attacked him, unseeing, blood pounding in my ears. Fell on him like I'd seen them do, forcing down his arm to his side: fingerprint bruises, fingernail marking if not for the thick cloth. Minor violence as a preventive to greater one. I don't think I'd appreciated how strong he truly is; even using the black fabric as handholds still made it an effort. A cocktail of fear and memory making me rough, all clumsy elbows and scrambling limbs, rambling a panic-reel of_ calm down calmdowncalmdown _more for my benefit than his.

Then it was over in a matter of a few frantic heartbeats, leaving me foolishly straddled across him, gripping his arm for dear life. I seemed to be more worked up than him, my breathing coming harsh and fast in the static half-light, condensing against his skin. V looked at his arm, then at me. Then he looked down at himself.

'I seem to be undressed.' He sounded faintly puzzled.

I held on stupidly and we both stared down at his chest, which remained brazenly unclothed and exposed for the world to gawk at. I thanked god for small mercies that I'd only unbuttoned his shirt instead of trying to strip the whole thing off.

'You were hot,' I mumbled intelligently, then coloured when I realized its treacherous double-meaning. Curses on this mongrel language.

'I mean,' I squawked on, 'You were heating up. With fever.' The heat radiating from under his arm confirmed that I wasn't hallucinating and, yes, he really was sick. I dropped his arm like a hot potato and succeeded in making myself look more of a fool. We stared at each other.

'The thermometer,' I remembered, grasping at straws.

'Nope,' he slurred without hesitation. 'Not happening.'

'Oh.' Somehow I didn't have the energy- or courage- to argue with him while sitting on his chest. Looking down at the man that rocked our government was a disorientating feeling, like cradling a timed bomb. A very eloquent and charming bomb, but no less deadly.

He hummed a sleepy sound, like a cat rumbling its contentment. I took it as my cue to get off.

'Feel like I'm forgetting something,' he remarked drowsily as I awkwardly slipped off, palms steadying on his chest. The vowels curled around each other, lending him the echo of his usual inflection.

'Like your little life-and-death situation?' I muttered, not expecting him to hear. 'Or me attacking you?'

He shifted further down on the bed, a slight grunt at the effort. 'Oh yeah. Thanks for that.' And so slurred I almost didn't catch it—''s warmer than the blankets.'

-

Now have you realized? Like the story of the frog in boiling water, I didn't either, not yet. Stared at him, felt his temperature tentatively, recorded it under 'Really quite warm'. Then I pottered around listening to his even breathing and feeling restlessly useless. My hands felt empty, impatient for something to do.

Now I realize it wasn't just the usual boredom before the lethargy sets in. Irritation disguised as impatience, unease parading as restlessness. In the back of my mind, something was ringing bells in a silent film: the motion was in black-and-white but I was still waiting for the surround sound to kick in. Like your average Londoner, I glossed over the inconsequential details that make up the underlying transparency of truth. You could say I missed the leaves for the forest.

So I ate and read, recorded and cooled him when necessary. I waited with half a breath drawn in, not quite knowing what I was waiting for. I waited.

**_- Evey_**


	3. Friday II: about 10 pm

_Warnings: Movieverse, during the single month before Evey betrays V. OOC.  
Totally forgot to post this up. Welcome to third part of prologue. Yeah, that's right. Way too long-winded; will take a haitus to rethink the damn pacing of fic.  
__Thanks for all feedback, always. :)_

_

* * *

_

About 10 pm or so.

Dear John,

No doubt you see the irony. I could run away now. I could escape. I could give him to the Chancellor, be patted on the back with one hand and probably stabbed with the other in some dark alley. Don't laugh. It's ridiculous enough as it is.

The longer I stay, the more bound I am to him. No longer unstable captor, but generous host. Oh, I've skirted around that idea before, when it lurks in the comfortable lags during movies, when it watches from the sidelines of the frustratingly satisfying debates that we carry late into the night. It's a sheepish truth, but V's too much of a gentleman to point it out. We sidestep it, like guests avoiding an unfortunate stain in the rug. But now, with me losing sleep and sanity over the terrorist meant to be my kidnapper, it's never been more blatantly obvious.

…I've taken the coward's route again, haven't I? Right from the start, I went past the whole 'If you let me go, I swear I won't tell anyone' routine. Not just because something told me it'd be an insult to both our intelligence, but because I was irrationally afraid he might take me at my word and end my misery.

If I was a true (blind) patriot, I'd tie V right now and deliver him as a gift to the Black Bags. If I was our parent's daughter, I'd join V's fight with all my heart and (blind) faith thrown in.

But, no. Coward, remember? I'm-- I'm selfish. I'll be honest: I want this. Barely a month, and already I've come to love this place, this outrageously cultured and beautifully cluttered underground that breathes history and is lined with words of poets and artists and madmen; this place that whispers_ home. _When was the last time I've felt safe? Only in dreams. Only in fairy tales like this, of the Grimm's heritage. Like a child at the end of a beloved bedtime story, I don't want it to end. Ugly as it sounds, I'm want to continue leeching off V's goodwill, ignoring the delicate etiquette of overstaying guests while spurning with stony disbelief the only thing he seems to live for—his revolution.

It looks terrible on paper, doesn't it? I know, you've every right to condemn me. Don't think I'm using honesty to redeem myself: I know I'm too afraid and unresisting, and I wish I wasn't, but I am. But sometimes, John, it's better to just survive rather than live. You last longer. Mum and dad lived after you, you know, really _lived_-- gloriously, heads held proud and unbowed for one banner-waving thundering of a year, the last thrumming exaltation of Hammond blood and then...

It's not worth it. Why kid myself? Life doesn't live like a platitude.

I thought that perhaps this was what was bothering me. So I attributed that vague feeling of misplacement to my little dilemma (which, I see now, is really no dilemma at all but just my reluctance in 'officially' throwing in my lot with the most wanted man in London) and left it at that.

V's temperature seemed to be declining very slowly, or perhaps I was growing used to it; the worst seemed to be over. His moments of increasing consciousness (and flow of apologies and sincere thanks) left me strangely reassured I wasn't alone. It made me complacent. I spent most of the evening reading, going on impassioned and futile Hunts for A Thermometer, and generally getting used the quiet and V-lessness of the place.

Strange to miss him when he was so near. When I felt too lonesome somewhere during our usual dinnertime, I splayed my fingers on his chest, idly tracing the scars and hatchings, and taking comfort in the steady rise and fall of his chest. Elbow propped on the bed and chin resting against palm, I played the child-game of using two fingers as simplistic stickmen to explore the geography of V's torso. _Over the ranges, round the smoothed wax splotches, follow the paint-streaks of red brick roads… Fingerman in search of the land of V, _I thought wryly, and my mouth twisted at the thought. I wished he would come back from whatever land he was from.

A third attempt at reading left me waking with a start on the sofa. The grandfather stood accusingly across the hall, the hands pointing at eleven in the evening. Disorientated, I stared at the book on my lap. I could have sworn I heard—

There! A muffled crash from V's room. My pulse jumped in my mouth; I was awake instantly. The only thing I could think of as I dropped the book and rushed to his room was _ohshitohshitohshit_. Vulgarity coming naturally with panic. How could I have slept? I cursed. I stumbled over my feet as I burst into the room, heart thundering.

At first I thought he'd left the room: the bed was starkly empty. My chest squeezed again, painfully. And then, at the far right of the bed's edge… the top of the wig…

I couldn't move fast enough. When I got around the bed, the sight knocked my breath out.

V had collapsed. He was on the floor by the bed, barely managing to pull himself upright with the bed as support. No longer shaking, but rocking, keening back and forth, rasping in breaths with groans like the air had knives in them, like he was drowning, like he was in pain. He was in pain. V was in pain.

I fell to my knees beside him, a distant roaring in my ears. Mind a white blank.

He looked up. 'Oh hey,' a stranger said weakly, in between V's breaths. 'Help. Hey—help.'

Maybe it was all those false alarms and terror drills during the past three days, but something gripped me and kept me from losing my head, from crying and fussing and falling apart. _Think,_ it said. Cold and clinical. _Breathe. Stay calm. What can you do? Here is V. Here is V in pain. He is not John. Breathe in. You are not seven. Stay calm now. _

What can you do?

I took V by the shoulders so he would look at me. Head ringing from the speed of it all. If he had been hot before, he was beyond it now. My hands were numb and were clumsy as I tried to strip away the shirt; I could have screamed with frustration at how slow I was, how-- _take it off, take it off, take it_ off! I couldn't think. Seven-year-old Evey put her hands over her ears and cried. Adult Evey was determined and mechanical. I was somewhere in between, terrified.

His skin burned to touch.

'V, where's the pain? V—V, look at me. Look. Where's the pain?' A stranger was using my voice too. The voice was calm: everything I was not.

From behind V's mask, the first one answered. Accent, I listened numbly. Sounds more Estuary. Dear god, I must be in shock.

'Muscles contractions,' he breathed. Then, V said, 'My head. _My head._' The mask tilted up at me; a final tug and at last the damn shirt was off, a rush of air where thick cloth once smothered. There was a sigh of relief, ''least I'm no longer cold.'

'No, but you might still die.' I sounded detached to my ears. Cold and clinical. 'Can you stand?'

Another wave hit him: he doubled over, a groan low in his throat, knuckles fisting so tight I could see the white even through the scarred patches. If the patients at St. Mary's were anything to go by, he was doing unbelievably well. Most of them screamed. You were luckier: you fainted. I nearly did- his grip around my wrist tightened to the point of white agony, gasping pain. But who was I to complain of little pains like this? I bit my lip till I tasted copper and was on the verge of screaming when he finally let go.

Pain and terror and adrenaline. I was shaking badly enough to match V. I waited till his ragged breathing returned to fill the space between us. Then I hoisted his arm around my neck, grunting at the effort—damn the man for all that muscle, damn everything!- and tried, stupidly, to lift him off. The protective bubble of apathy was starting to lift; my mouth was dry enough that my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

'V, you've got to try,' I croaked. He remained boneless and shuddering, my arm around his waist. I knew what I was asking—I refused to cry from the helplessness of it all. He's not supposed to die. Not like this, like you.

I refused to cry.

'You will die if you don't move, V,' I said. 'If you can't see through the pain, I'll guide you. We need to get to—V, do you understand? Its only to the bathroom, just a short walk…' I tried again; it was like heaving up a sack of bricks. 'C'mon, I'll help you, _please V,_ I know this, I know what I'm doing, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—please- _get- up…'_

Movement! My fourth try brought a response-- he stumbled down almost immediately, bringing me along. I gargled encouragements, a rambling slush of feel-good syllables in an octave too high, didn't matter- neither of us were listening. He was moving—he was _moving! _Relief so sharp it pierced. He used the bed, the table, all the objects littering the way as crutches; even then, I was bowled over by his sheer weight and we seemed to fall more often than walk. I was breathing as badly as him by the time we were almost at the bathroom—so near, yet so far-- when he spoke.

'Didn't think—it'll be th—this bad, yeah?' He was panting behind the mask. Wildly, I wondered at the heat that must surely collect in it, wanted to tear it off. 'I mean,' the stranger continued, 'I'd-- only calcu—_arh!'_ A reflex made him take his hand off the doorframe to grip the side of his head. We fell to the floor, a heap of overheated limbs on the floor.

Tiled floor. Bathroom floor. I almost cried from happiness. 'Come on, V, we're almost there, we're almost…'

He was slick with perspiration; a good sign, a miracle sign. I clung on to that hope like a lifeline. 'Up…' I encouraged desperately, arm hooked around his back. 'Damnitjustafew… more -- onetwothree- _UP…_'

V staggered upwards. 'Don't lie, Ruth,' he mumbled. Delusional. 'Just don't--'

We managed to get him propped up against the wall facing the shower sprinkle. The bathroom with the bathtub was too far down the hall; we had to use the bathroom which resembled more of a storage room with a shower head than anything else.

I crawled to the facet and twisted hard, the coldest it could get. After several heart-stopping groans, the old pipes finally worked their magic and the room filled with the spray-blast of sweet, icy water. Standing under the spray with the droplets running in cold rivulets down my face and back, it was bliss, bliss, crying bliss. I raised my arms, a heady drink of exhaustion and relief.

On the other hand, for V-- being blasted with the sudden gut-shock of freezing water must have just been from one hell to the next.

'Bloody 'ell,' he said weakly. 'Fuck.' And then his mask dipped: he was unconscious.

---

I must have realized then. It was impossible to ignore: it was so obvious. Surround sound finally on, loud enough to deafen. A pile of leaves at my feet. The voice changes, minor and unmistakable. The indifference to contact, body exposure. The colloquialisms that should've rung the loudest warning bells of all, from a man whose words are everything. No doubt the expletives must have set off alarms so strident that even I couldn't ignore it. But at that time, it didn't seem important. Trivial, even.

So he had some sort of repressed personality thing going on. Maybe his obsession with his being the living personification of his Idea had made him force it down for so long he'd forgotten about it. Maybe it had something to do with his scars. Who knows? Who cares? As long as he stayed alive.

I didn't care about anything else.

---

The pain came in waves and didn't allow him to stay unconscious for long. When I returned from grabbing the capsules, I found him still delirious and beginning to hyperventilate from the cold. Good, I thought grimly. At least I know he's alive.

I turned down the water to a lower volume and up to a higher temperature, skin feeling tight with anxiety. 'V, listen. Are you still feeling warm?'

The mask lolled towards me, grinning its frozen smile. 'You jest,' he said. He gave a short, half-hearted laugh. 'Haa. Funny.'

I went and knelt by him, putting my hand on his chest. It was still burning. 'This is important.' I had to raise my voice slightly over the drumming of the water- oh god, it was freezing. Urgency making my voice shrill. 'They always say they feel cold, right till the end, always cold, always dry, always—' I cut myself off, I was rambling. 'But you said you were feeling warm. You are, aren't you?' I had to squint at him; the water was blurring my eyes. _'Aren't you?' _

Please god say yes. He stiffened, shoulders and abdomen tensing: another contraction, or maybe another wave of migraine slamming with a vengeance. I fussed over him desperately, patting his arm and soothing his shoulders even though I knew it was useless. I was useless. 'The heat remains,' V breathed at last. 'And all the fires of hell…'

He trailed off. I thought he'd fallen unconscious again when he spoke up suddenly. 'Hey, Evey,' he said, and this time I knew it wasn't mere weariness that made the consonants so faintly clipped, the echo of an accent curling the syllables-- 'are you eating well?'

I stared. Well, no doubt about it now. In his normal state, V would never say _'Hey, Evey'. _Ever. _'Evey', _yes, _'My dear Evey', _sure—but _'Hey, Evey?' Hey? _Adam Sutler would sooner resign.

It almost made me smile though. Terror faltering in its paralyzing advance for a moment, puzzled. Couldn't help it, it was so random and polite. A slice of V's unfailing hospitality hashed with street informality. He'd be asking me about the weather next.

'I'm…I'm fine. Listen--'

'Finding everything in the kitchen?' he interrupted me. His voice was strained. 'Taking the cod liver?'

I was nonplussed. Here we were, sitting in a spray-storm that was almost too cold to breathe properly in, and he was inquiring about whether I kept my Vitamin D up. Never mind that he could die in the next five minutes, he wanted to know about my dietary status.

'The last time I took it was… before all this…'

'You like the new brand?'

'The bottle's… really small—wait, _what? _Good god, V, you can't be seriously talking to me about cod liver oil, of all things! And now!' I wondered how bad his fever really was for the delirium to reach such heights. 'I've got to give—'

'Just a trial bottle.' His fingers scrabbled on the tiles as he tried to sit up, as if we were having a normal conversation. Wasn't he in pain? 'I guess it's all finished now.'

My mouth dropped. I could strangle him, I thought blankly. Strangle him till he goes unconscious and force it down his throat. I could. He'll never know. 'Yes,' I said at last, helplessly. What else could I say? _'I guess. _Though there's enough for one more time. And then I shall die of Vitamin D deficiency because you weren't here to give me another bottle. And you shall be sorry. Are you happy now?'

The mask appeared to be considering me. I noticed his left shoulder was starting to tremble, and the dread came back in roaring rush. 'Look' I said desperately, 'if you just take this, I swear I won't forget to take the oil every other day. Every day! I don't care! As long as you--'

V didn't even look the pill in my hand. He made a noise of agreement as if the conversation had tired him, and took it. I turned, facing the spray, so he could swallow it without me looking. Interrupted anxiety returning to choke my che--

'There're spare bottles in the bottom larder--'

_'Take it!' _

There was silence, save for the hissing of the spray. The pressure was weaker on my face now; the water tank in this bathroom must be of the limited kind, I figured. I shivered and squinted and silently cursed the unbelievable inanity of supposedly intelligent revolutionaries everywhere.

'V, are you done?'

Silence. I hesitated, then got up to turn the water off. With some towels and the pools of water on the floor, I could keep him soaked for some time. It wouldn't do to use up all the water reserves and give him hypothermia.

'V?'

Still no answer. He could be unconscious again. Was his mask…?

I crawled backwards, using my hands as my eyes. Blind groping up to his face discovered the mask mostly secured on, so I finished the adjustments to the best I could guess before turning around.

Almost perfect. The wig was slightly skewed and matted with water but heck, that was the least of my worries. His palms and the floor around were absent of the blue pill, so I surmised he must have managed to swallow it before he knocked out. My hands were shaking, an aftereffect. Stupid man. Incredible man. My teeth chattered, knocking together in domino-clicks that echoed hollow in the silence of the bathroom.

I grabbed some towels I'd dumped at the side- they were already soaked; I could barely feel the dripping chill through the numbness of my hands. If I was cold, it would hit me later. Adrenaline and relief warmed me enough for now. I toweled him, soaking his chest and arms, scooping water over his legs. Déjà vu with a nightmarish twist.

I was wondering whether I should turn back the showers on—the heat didn't seem to be letting up, pleasegod let the medicine workwork_work_—when V woke. He groaned and one hand lifted to touch his head lightly, as if it hurt to even touch, and the mask angled towards me.

'How long does it take for aspirins to work?' he exhaled.

I realized time hadn't passed for him: we were in the same conversation. 'Half an hour or so,' I said, not meeting his eyes. It wasn't a real lie, not really. I could only bring myself to give him one capsule instead of the recommended two, anyway; guilt compromising with fear.

I bunched up a towel and applied pressure on his shoulder with one hand; he slid down wordlessly, straining his head upwards enough for me to fit the makeshift pillow under his head. There were tremors under his skin, faint as heat shimmers, and his heartbeat was unnaturally fast beneath my palms. I used scooped water over his shoulders, stroking him with numb fingers, distressed.

'V, you have to tell me how this happened,' I said lowly. I leaned over him, close enough that strands of my sodden hair fell past my face, brushing his mask. A curtain at the confessional, the quiet of honesty within. 'This isn't normal. I've seen this before.'

The mask tilted up slightly, as if trying to concentrate. I knew he was fighting delirium just to hear me and I should let him rest, but a knot of anxiety and tight anger in my stomach wasn't about to let this go.

'I know this, V,' I said relentlessly. 'I _know_this. Your fever is at breaking point. If it's what I think it is, I've never known anyone who survived it. I need you to tell me everything.'

A pause. Then, from within the mask, a sigh-- 'Alright. Yes. …Later.' Then, more clearly, 'Don't worry.'

I leaned back, the knot easing, exhaling a breath of relief I didn't know I was holding in. Seeing V lying like that before me, limp and bare from waist up, shuddering and weakened-- V who moves in a different script from the rest of us, who changes the mood of rooms just by the complexity of his presence…

There was a split-second of disconnection, like the flash of a camera when unexpected: for a single, disorientating moment, the man whose hand I was holding was a complete stranger, an imposter. _Surely not V, _a voice scoffed—_this creature, V? Surely not…_

And then my equilibrium snapped back and it was over, double-vision hastily dissipating like mist in the sun. V was V again, unfathomable and real.

V hummed a song I'd not heard before while I drenched his upper body with wet cloths, his body heat warming the cloths too soon after they were laid. Judging from the way the tune broke and mutated, it would be a song that I'd probably never hear again, courtesy of his delirium. The rich vibrato bounced off the grey damp walls, breaking off at points when his pain swelled and it was effort enough to remember to breathe.

'Still think I'm hot, love?' he rambled deliriously after an especially bad wave of nerve-agony. Mellifluous voice strained almost beyond familiarity. His hand still gripping mine, his only anchor to reality; there was a stab of fear he couldn't see me through his delusions anymore. It was starting.

I smiled down at him anyway, brilliant with confidence I didn't feel. This V-who-was-not-quite-V, this man who didn't want me to worry even though he was crippled with pain. My throat tightened. 'To die for,' I said as cheerfully as I could.

He rumbled a tired laugh. 'Eve of Eden,' he said. Then, so faintly- 'Thank you.' His mantra since he got sick.

It was a sudden ache, butterfly longing rising behind my ribs, catching me off-guard. I wanted to hold him close, to bury my head in the crook of his neck, between the long bleached scar across his collarbone and the broad edge of his shoulder, to bury myself in the desperate rhythm of his heartbeats, his body promise that it's alright, it'll be alright, he's still here. Not gone, not yet.

Instead I gave his hand a squeeze, throat constricting again. 'Don't say that.' I took a breath, then plunged on, 'Think of it as an overdue thank you for letting me stay here.'

But V's hand was limp in mine: he was unconscious again. I stared at him for some time, heart still caught in my throat. Head ringing from the dying buzz of adrenaline and clotted emotion. Everything had happened too fast.

I touched his mask lightly, sliding my finger under the curve of its edge. Felt the warmth within. An imitation of intimacy. 'Hold on,' I said softly. The words felt thick and fuzzy on my tongue after all these years. He is nothing like you.

My eyes were blurred, so I wiped them, checked his temperature again and went to get the face-towels.

_-_

_/ letter tbc_


End file.
